


Stick a Pony in Me Pocket

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When disaster befalls the Weak Anthropic Principle, the Scavengers end up on involuntary shore leave for a few days.  Krok and Spinister hole up at a quiet bar and try to forget their troubles - but an innocent conversation about the future leads them to some unexpected places.  Tactile interfacing; warning for drunk (but lucid and consensual) sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stick a Pony in Me Pocket

The ship was definitely fragged.

It was, in the words of its pilot, “fragged like a minibot who’s gone home with a Phase Sixer”.  And Crankcase would know.  Not about being a minibot with a Phase Sixer (or, for that matter, a Phase Sixer with a minibot, although there _had_ been the time when he’d tried to fix up the battle armour from the crashed ship on Clemency and go out to the nearest bar wearing it, and _none_ of the other Scavengers had wanted to pry into what _that_ was about), but regarding the ship.  He’d spent the past four hours in the engine room, tapping, tinkering, occasionally whacking, and generally scowling at the offending machinery.  Crankcase had an entire arsenal of scowls to choose from, and the one he’d been turning on the ship was nuclear-grade, but to no avail.  The months upon months of patching and making do, trying to squeeze just a few more lightyears out of diminishing fuel and aging engines, had finally taken their toll on the _Weak Anthropic Principle_.  It could be repaired, but it was going to take days.  So, for the time being, Krok and his team were stuck on an alien world.

It wasn’t _too_ bad, to be honest.  At least this place had civilisation of a sort.  (A sort where there were no warrants out on any of Krok’s crew, which was the very best sort.)  A thriving port city catered to the crews of the ships both on the planet’s surface and in spacedock.  It was teeming with visitors from dozens of races, and while a few of their fellow travellers recoiled from a party of Cybertronians, eyeing them with resentment, the locals themselves didn’t seem to mind mechanical customers.  By the end of the first day, Krok had managed to source half a dozen of the parts they’d need to properly fix up the W.A.P., and had a few leads on the rest.

Standing on a street corner, he watched the first of the planet’s twin red suns dip below the mountain that dominated the town’s skyline.  Around him, the city’s merchants were shutting up shop, rolling down their shutters just as the lights and holograms above the dozen or so bars lining the street flickered awake, and people began streaming into them en masse.  The planet’s inhabitants were a work-hard, play-hard bunch, it seemed.  Not much point in trying to continue doing business tonight.

“We might as well take the chance to relax,” Krok began, but Misfire was ahead of him.  The jet was already dragging Fulcrum towards the loudest, brightest club on the block.

“You lot coming with?” he shouted back.

Krok shook his head.  He was frankly exhausted, and just looking at Misfire’s destination was giving him a headache.  “Not this time.  You two have fun.”  After a moment’s thought, he added, “Try not to break any intergalactic ordinances.”  _Again._

Misfire gave him a playful salute that trailed off halfway through when a server passed by, balancing an elaborate energon cocktail on a tray alongside a few organic drinks.  “Oooh!”  Whether Misfire was interested in the cocktail or its presumably mechanical recipient wasn’t clear – he just grabbed Fulcrum’s hand and gave chase, following the server into the press of dancers inside.  Fulcrum had just enough time to glance back over his shoulder and mouth _help me_ before he was pulled along.

Crankcase blew out a noisy vent.  “Frag this.  I’m gonna go recharge on the ship.  Someone’s got to babysit that Autobot menace.”

“Well,” Krok said as Crankcase departed, “looks like it’s just you and me, Spin.  And I could do with a drink.  A _quiet_ drink.”  Scanning the street, he spotted one bar entrance half-tucked away in the mouth of an alley.  A window under the gently glowing holographic sign showed a few patrons of different races sitting around tables, some of them playing leisurely games of Hax.  It looked… nice.  Civilised.  “What do you think of that place?”

Spinister squinted at the entrance for a long moment.

“That sign is glowing at me funny,” he declared, unlimbering his rifle.   “I think I’m gonna shoot it.”

***

Once Krok talked Spinister down – which he could now do with the ease of long practice – they found a secluded table at the back of the bar.  Their arrival had caused a little muttering from some of the other patrons, but once again, the staff didn’t even blink their optics, or… whatever it was that organics did when they were surprised, at having a couple of Cybertronians in the place. 

Krok leaned his helm against the wall and sighed.  “Oddly pleasant little world.”

Spinister seemed to consider this, and finally shrugged.  “S’all right.”  He drew the end of the straw under his mask – the fleshies had even known to provide straws! – and drained half his glass in one go.  Krok smiled behind his own mask, taking slower sips to savour the taste.  The highgrade was reasonably fresh; not as good as they’d get on a mechanical world, perhaps, but after months of dead mechs’ fuel, filtered through Misfire’s dubious systems, any energon that didn’t come out of a corpse’s spark chamber might as well be vintage Vosian.

They polished off two rounds in appreciative silence, and then another two while Krok spun out his plans for after the ship was fixed.  Spinister’s optics roamed lazily around the room as Krok spoke – dwelling on a few of the drinkers at the bar, the decorations on the walls, his own hands – but every once in a while he’d chip in with, “So we just gonna forget about hitting that other planet, then?” or, “Thought Crankcase said that’d take three days, not two.”  And Krok would pause to reorient his plans, and Spinister would slurp at his drink and give him time to do it.

There was something strangely restful about their medic’s company.  Krok had gotten used to thinking of Spinister’s demands for clarification and regular threats to shoot things as just another part of The Noise – the Scavengers’ constant background chatter of complaints and jokes and panic and need.  But without Crankcase grousing in one audial, Fulcrum freaking out in the other, and Misfire… just… _Misfire_ , Krok realised that Spinister was actually very quiet when left to his own devices.  It was soothing.

“Spin,” he began thoughtfully.  Spinister glanced up from his staring contest with the cartoon mascot on the bar’s branded coasters.  “If we get back to Cybertron, and it turns out – well, it turns out there _is_ a proper peace, and a place for us there… what would you want to do?”

He waited out the pause, idly sipping his drink.

“Dunno,” Spinister finally said.  “Don’t think I’d stick around.  I figure scavenging is still gonna be a thing, even with the war over.  And I’d rather be out in space than back planetside.”

“You’re not tempted to go into business as a doctor?  You could, you know.  Private practice, or a surgeon at one of those massive, shiny hospitals they had in Iacon before the war.”  Krok’s voice held a teasing note, but it was gentle.  “I could help you get settled, if you wanted.”

“Nah.  I did that once before – the whole hospital surgeon thing.”  There was a richness to Spinister’s tone that hinted he was smiling under the mask.  “It wasn’t for me.”

Krok almost dropped his drink.  How had he never known that?  His processor boggled trying to picture Spinister chit-chatting at a swanky hospital fundraiser, without so much as taking pot-shots at a suspicious punch bowl… although, now that Krok came to think of it, picturing him as the leading surgeon in some life-or-death operation wasn’t nearly as much of a stretch, not for anyone who’d seen Spinister’s frightening degree of concentration in the med bay.  Hmmm.

“What are you gonna do?” Spinister broke into his thoughts.

“Find my unit.”  The answer was automatic, as if hard-coded by now.  “And then…”   _I don’t know_.  _Not yet.  Some tactician I am._   “It depends.”

“On?”

“Them.”  Krok drained his glass and signalled for another.  Thinking about his missing unit had left him in less of a mood to slowly savour a few rounds of highgrade, and much more in a mood to get properly stinking overcharged.

He was so engaged in getting fresh drinks for both of them that he almost missed Spinister’s question.  “What about us?”

Krok turned his head.  The tone had been matter-of-fact, and Spinister’s expression was even more impassive than usual, as he gazed steadily at Krok.

“What about you?  I mean –”  Krok bit down on his glossa when he heard the way the words had come out.  “I’m not going to leave any of you high and dry, you know.  I’ll make sure you’re all right.  But –”

He wasn’t entirely certain how the sentence was going to end.  _But finding my unit again was always the plan?  But this insane, ragtag little band was never meant to last?_ He was saved from making a decision when Spinister just said, “Yeah.”  And went back to staring down the coaster.

It wasn’t bitter.  It was a perfectly calm remark.  Generous, even, letting them both escape the conversation with their dignity.

And it broke Krok, just a little.

***

It had started to rain late into the night, right around when the bar was closing up.  By now, the storm was really going, hammering at the windows as Spinister staggered up the last few stairs and deposited a half-conscious Krok on the solitary berth.

He stood still until the room stopped whirling around him, then vented hugely and dropped into the ratty chair next to the berth.  A few kliks later, Krok began to stir.  He squinted up, holding his arm as if shielding his optics from even the dim overhead light, and rasped, “Spin?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t the W.A.P.”

“Nah.  Misfire and the loser aren’t back yet, and I figured you didn’t want to run into Crank when we’re all...”  Spinister made a gesture that took in Krok’s languid, overcharged pose and his own dizziness.  Krok winced at the thought and nodded, then winced again at the motion.  No one should be subjected to a sober and more than usually fragged-off Crankcase when not in full possession of their own faculties.  “’Sides, you weren’t really up to walking, and I didn’t want to fly in the rain.”

“So where are we?”

“Bar’s got rooms to rent upstairs.  I figure you can have the berth.  You’re worse off than me.”

“Nonsense.”  Krok reached out and grabbed Spinister’s wrist.  He made a motion that seemed designed to pull Spinister onto the berth and hoist himself out of it at the same time, so that they could swap places, but it was only halfway successful; Spinister did tumble into berth, and landed squarely on top of Krok.

Who lay there, blinking hazily up at him with a surprisingly adorable look of confusion.

“Um,” Krok began.  He didn’t quite seem to know where to go from there.

They were close enough that Spinister could _feel_ it as well as hear it when Krok’s fans kicked on.  The tactician’s body was deliciously warm underneath him.  Krok shifted, and suddenly their legs were tangling, slotting together, and their frames were pressed tight, fitted like puzzle pieces.  It made Spinister’s engines rev.  His head was buzzing again, his frame hot and aching with pent-up charge.  It would be so easy to grind down into that wonderful heat, to slide his hand along Krok’s body, watch those red optics widen…

But Krok hadn’t moved.  Krok was the leader, the one who made the decisions for all of them.  And apart from squirming a little under Spinister’s weight, he hadn’t made a move to touch him.  That was a decision in itself.

_Stupid,_ Spinister chided himself.  Krok didn’t want him.  Krok didn’t want _any_ of them, remember?  Krok wanted to find his unit, and then that would be it.  He’d be gone out of Spinister’s life.

Gritting his denta, Spinister rolled off him with effort.  Krok sighed and rubbed a hand hard over his face.

“We could, y’know, share,” Spinister offered.  It was true.  The berth was just wide enough that with some planning, the two of them could recharge side-by-side without touching. 

“Yeah.  All right.”  Krok’s voice was soft and a little staticky, his venting uneven. 

Spinister arranged himself as carefully as he could at the very edge of the berth.  Krok was still sprawled out strutlessly, so that he was taking up most of the space, despite being smaller; he didn’t seem to have noticed.  His optics were far away, but they weren’t as bleary as they’d been a klik ago.  Spinister knew this look:  Krok was tactic-ing.

For what felt like ages, they lay side-by-side, and Spinister tried to drop into recharge.  It was no use.  His processor was still whirling around as if it had sprung tiny chopper blades of its own.

“Hey, Krok?”

“Mmmm?”

The smart thing would have been to say, _Nothing, sorry,_ and forget all about it.  That was what Krok would have done.  That was _tactical._

In fairness, Spinister had never claimed to be the smart one.

“You know you said that when you find your unit, you’ll make sure we’re okay before you go?”  Krok didn’t look at him, but he was still, listening.  “How about you make sure _they’re_ okay, and then come with us instead?  Because I know you gotta find them and all, but I don’t…”  Spinister stared at his hands as if they were the most fascinating objects in the galaxy.  “I don’t want you to leave.”

A warm hand settled on his shoulder, and Krok turned towards him, optics glittering a little too bright.  His usually cut-glass voice was thick with static, but the words were clear.  “I don’t want to leave, Spin.”

Spinister waited patiently for the “but”.  It didn’t come.

Instead, Krok’s hand started to trail up to his shoulder, snags and roughened metal teasing Spinister’s plating just slightly, and settled against the side of his face.  Krok drew his thumb over Spinister’s mask.  “I’ve been thinking,” he murmured, vents hot against Spinister’s neck, “about tonight.  About you.  And about what Fulcrum said some time ago, you remember?  If the war is really over, then we get to decide what we want to do from here on out.”  Krok nuzzled his shoulder, and Spinister’s vents nearly stopped.  “And I want – I want to be _right here._ ”

Spinister nuzzled back, feeling like his backstruts were melting.  But – “How overcharged are you?”  He didn’t want to hold Krok to something he said when he was too drunk to know better, and he definitely didn’t want to _do_ anything that Krok wasn’t going to feel good about afterwards.

Krok’s optics crinkled in amusement as he pulled back far enough to look at Spinister, and recited the list of parts they needed to get for the W.A.P., along with their specifications and likely suppliers, in quick, crisp succession.  “Does that answer your question?” he finished.  It really didn’t, given that Spinister had mostly let the repair discussions go in one audial and out the other, but if Krok _was_ making any of it up, the fact that he could do it that fluently had to count for something.

“Yeah,” Spinister breathed, and wrapped his arms around him.  One hand stroked Krok’s back, making the mech sigh and burrow against him; the other gripped his thigh, guiding it up to wrap around Spinister’s waist.

They lay for a long time, nuzzling and rubbing their masks against one another, fans whirring as the charge built between them.  It inched upwards lazily, but then, there wasn’t far to go:  the highgrade already had both their systems overclocked, circuitry practically vibrating with excess energy.  Spinister’s hands were precise, despite the buzzing in his head; they darted into all the seams he knew from Krok’s medical exams, sliding along delicate wires, coaxing them awake.  Krok’s hands weren’t as careful, but they were _hungry_ in the way they raked over Spinister’s plating.  Krok seemed especially fascinated with his rotors, fingers tracing patterns and half-understood glyphs over the quivering metal.  Spinister thought that one of them was his name, and another might have been a sloppily scrawled “mine” – but then Krok grabbed both rotors at once and _pulled_ , using them to tug Spinister on top of him, and Spinister lost all ability to recognise or care about the glyphs.

This time, there was no hesitation from Krok.  His legs looped around Spinister’s, and his body was rocking up hard against him, their frames exchanging crackles of electricity now with every contact.  Spinister tipped his head back, letting Krok guide him, as always.

Krok overloaded first, his entire body arcing as tendrils of light snaked over his frame.  They snapped hard against Spinister’s plating, especially where Krok’s hand cupped the back of his neck, making him whimper with pain and need; but the need could wait, because _oh,_ watching Krok was the best thing.  His leader’s optics whited out in pleasure, and he twisted, feet digging frantically into the berth, before slumping back with a spark-deep moan.  The air filled with the scent of ozone and scorched plating.

Krok onlined his optics.  “Wait…” he mumbled, clutching his head as he looked up at Spinister.  His voice was clean and sharp again; the overload had obviously cleared the excess charge, leaving him relatively sober.  “Wait.”

Spinister tensed, suddenly concerned that Krok might be having second thoughts after all.  There was a click, loud in the stillness of the room –

– and then Krok’s mask was off, and his _mouth_ was on Spinister’s _chevron_ and Spinister was abruptly tumbling into overload, keening and rubbing hard against Krok’s body so that the charge cycled between them.  Krok gave a strangled cry, and that was all Spinister knew before the world fell away.

When he came back to himself, his vents were sobbing for air, and Krok was sprawled out beneath him, one hand stroking his mask. 

Spinister’s fingers came up and hesitantly traced Krok’s mouth.  He’d never seen it before, in all this time.  The metal of his face was a little scarred along one side from what looked like the remnants of a chemical burn; a little worn, as well, making Krok look older than Spinister knew he was.  His lips were full, verging on plump, and the lower one had a dent in the middle, as if from a wound improperly healed.  Spinister thumbed it, and Krok’s lips pursed against his thumb in the faintest suggestion of a kiss.

***

It was subtle, the way things changed.  Krok didn’t make any kind of announcement about his decision (in the same way he didn’t announce, and no one ever mentioned, the fact that Krok and Spinister were now recharging together as often as they were apart.)  He just slipped into talking about the future as if it were a given that the team would stay together.  So it was weeks before Fulcrum noticed, and asked, “Wait, what about your unit?”

“What about them?”

Fulcrum looked vaguely panicky for a moment, for reasons Krok couldn’t fathom.  “Well – nothing, I just figured that if you ever – I mean, _when_ you find them, I thought you wanted to leave.”

“We’re scavengers, Fulcrum,” Krok said easily.  “And the first rule of scavenging is:  When you find something good, you don’t leave it behind.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Stick a pony in me pocket,  
> I'll fetch the suitcase from the van.  
> Cos if you want the best 'uns,  
> But you don't ask questions,  
> Then brother, I'm your man.  
> Cos where it all comes from is a mystery,  
> It's like the changin' of the seasons,  
> And the tides of the sea..."
> 
> \- Theme Song, Only Fools and Horses


End file.
